Monikers

I am riding on the dreaded red line.  It is very early in the morning.  The sun has not yet risen.  Most of the seats are occupied by the dissolute or the homeless.  Morons are playing tinny and dreadful music out loud on their terrible cell phones while idiots express their opinions and I die a little inside. 

A young woman is sitting in a seat in front of me scrolling through her phone looking at entrees of people who have called her recently.  Over her shoulder I can see that she has received calls from Mary, Karen & unknown number.  She scrolls down and I see another entry, “the antichrist.”

Now what must it be like to go through life with a nickname like the antichrist?  I imagine that she comes home from school and her mom casually says, “oh your friend, the antichrist, stopped by while you were out.”  Or those pesky messages at the office.  The antichrist called and needs a response by tomorrow.  Or the inevitable, “let’s meet the antichrist at happy hour!”  But I have said too much.  Hopefully the antichrist won’t read this and hunt me down.  Oh wait, I see it is too late …